


Pancakes Were Involved

by convolutedConcussion



Series: The Pancakes Series [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beth Is Reckless and Rio Knows What Buttons to Push, Episode Tag: s01e05, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Thanks Agent Turner for Beth Boland's Sex Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: It hadn't been the kind of thing she'd thought about much since she'd gotten out of his office.  Telling him she'd had sex with Rio was absolutely the most obvious cover, so it's a little embarrassing that she hadn't thought of it first (she comforts herself with the idea that there's probably a learning curve associated with this whole criminal enterprise thing).  There had been a moment of guilty pleasure at what she had said--a feeling that's a little too reminiscent of childish glee at pushing boundaries by saying something inappropriate to be comfortable--but coming home held responsibilities and duties and minor catastrophes, so she had neglected to process that she had, moderately graphically, described a sexual encounter with a man she would later have to see, and speak to, and interact with.





	Pancakes Were Involved

**Author's Note:**

> So, first of all, shoutout/simultaneous callout to my good pal for dragging me kicking and screaming into this fandom only to find after a whopping _five_ episodes I found I had to stop and write a fic. Knowing full well this is _not_ what happens, this is what I sure wish would happen in s01e06, and I had to get this futile wish off my chest before continuing--so obviously it's canon up to s01e05 and then it veers off the rails.

All things considered, Beth thinks she’s handling this all very well.

_ Well _ is a relative term, but everyone’s still alive and uninjured--well, everyone she knows  _ personally _ is still alive and uninjured.  Given their collective life choices of late, she thinks she should be able to count that as a win, right?

There are moments--mostly  _ just _ moments--when the reality of her life as it is now hits her and it’s all she can do to hold herself upright.  These are moments of anger rather than panic, and it’s anger that wells up under her lungs and forces all the air out, white-hot fury that has her heart beating rabbit-fast in the cage of her ribs like it’s going to escape.  It’s not as if she hadn’t known, deep down, for a long time that Dean was lying--it’s not as if she hadn’t been angry about it, but it was always simmering just beneath the surface. It had also been easy to push away, before she knew, before she had proof, before she had  _ confirmation. _  There had always been something to distract her--there were the kids, there were obligations at the school, there were any number of social engagements.

And, now, it’s like all that pissed-off indignation, all that  _ rage _ , lives under her skin and in her chest and under her feet and right behind her molars and nothing she can do, nothing that worked so well for her for so long, cools it.  Now that it’s made itself known and she’s  _ acknowledged it _ , it’s like this Other Beth is always trying to rip its way out of her.

Bad mornings like this one make that Other Beth just that much more apparent.  By the time the children are off to school, her jaw hurts from clenching it and she feels frazzled, off-kilter.  Kenny hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, Emma hadn’t wanted to have her hair done, and then Jane had used Kenny’s favorite bowl for her oatmeal, and then Danny felt left out of the bickering, and--

Shaking her head, she lets out her breath in one long exhale and goes to her room to get ready for Dean’s appointment.  Angry, betrayed,  _ hurt _ as she is, she  _ would _ go with him.  He’s the father of her children and, for better or worse ( _ richer or poorer _ , an unkind voice in the back of her mind whispers,  _ forsaking all others _ ), her husband of twenty years.  Even if she knows they can’t go back--and she’s known that for a while--this, she can do for him.  She can stiffen her upper lip and  _ be there _ .  If the unkind voice in the back of her mind reminds her how unlikely it would be for him to do the same were the circumstances reversed, well…

If there’s one thing she’s always been good at, it’s doing what’s expected of her.  And this is  _ certainly _ expected of her.

She stands half-undressed in front of the mirror for a long time with the water running and fogging up the glass in front of her before she finally gets into the shower.  She’s not sure why--maybe she’s looking to see if the change in her that she feels should be so apparent to the outside world is written across her face.

She doesn’t find anything.

The hot water and good pressure does wonders to loosen her clenched-tight muscles and she spends more time than she should under the spray.  It’s possible she’s nervous about the appointment. It’s also possible she’s contemplating just staying in the shower until her natural death to avoid  _ going  _ to the appointment.

As soon as that thought filters through, though, there’s a stab of guilt in her belly and she shuts the water off.  Where her shower had been distracted and slow, she finishes the rest of her morning routine with perfunctory quickness, and her makeup is done and hair dried before she even realizes she’s moving to her closet.  In spite of the fact that the dress she puts on is one she’s worn several times, when she puts it on this morning, she can’t help but feel like she looks like she’s wearing a costume. Or maybe not a costume, maybe a disguise.  She frowns at her reflection and shoves that thought away because  _ that _ , she’s reasonably sure, she can chalk up to stress and recently entering into a money laundering scheme.

When she finds Dean at the kitchen island drinking coffee, he looks surprised to see her dressed.

“What time do we need to leave?” she asks, voice quiet and void of any indication she noticed.

“What ti--Oh.”  She watches his face flicker through confused, surprised, alarmed, and settle on sheepishly pleased before he tucks his hands in his pockets and says, “In like ten minutes, but seriously don’t worry about it, Beth, I can go this alone.”

Frowning because she thought they were past this, she starts, “You shouldn’t have to, just because--Dean, I’m still your--”

But she stops, bitterness on the back of her tongue.

A petulant, irritable part of her wants to scream.  She could do this--she could be there for him, and hold his hand, and anchor their family, and she would absolutely do whatever would be needed.  Something in her, though,  _ balks _ at the idea of arguing for the privilege of doing something she doesn’t even really want.

More coldly than she means to, she shrugs, “Fine.  Let me know what the doctor says?”

A few minutes of tense silence pass punctuated only by occasional sips before, finally, he leaves with a promise to give her an update if he gets one, which she guesses is as good as she could ask for.  There’s a moment when she thinks he’s going to hug her again, but she’s relieved when he doesn’t. Alone, she leans on her hands on the countertop in front of her and stares into the middle distance, back ramrod straight and jaw tight again, until the tension between her shoulder blades starts to feel more painful than grounding.  She remembers however distantly one of the other PTA moms going on and on about how she’d started taking kickboxing classes and they changed her  _ entire outlook _ on life and wonders if hitting something for a while would help.

Snapping out of it, she looks to the table still littered with breakfast dishes and gets to work clearing them away, methodically throwing out congealed leftover oatmeal and piling the dishes into the sink.  It’s a mindless, soothing task in that she doesn’t have to think about a damn thing, and she’s almost done when the doorbell rings and jars her out of the moment.

What she’s  _ not _ expecting to find--although, given past experience, she thinks was probably a little silly of her--is Rio, alone, on her doorstep.  Having used the doorbell.  _ Alone _ .  His appearance, all relaxed confidence with his hands in his pockets, strikes in her just now less bone-chilling fear and more mild irritation, and she counts to five in her head before the mask falls into place and she smiles, patently fake, and steps aside for him to come in.  He gives her a look, eyes narrowed and head tilting, one that she’s taken recently to mean that she’s amused him in some way, but he doesn’t say anything as she shuts the door, and the silence of the house settles around them.

Arms crossed, she waits for him to explain.

When he doesn’t, she breezes past him back into the kitchen with a cool but innocuous, “It’s not a collection day.”

He makes a noise of assent but doesn’t volunteer the reason for his visit, and she realizes her mistake when she gets into the kitchen because the table is  _ right there _ and the memory of last night with Agent Turner flashes in her mind.  She feels, or imagines she feels, his eyes on her as she rinses the last of the dishes and, feeling inane, finishes loading the dishwasher.  She’s not a person on whom a blush rests easily or attractively, and she feels heat on her chest and high on her cheeks either from the thought of the night before or his quiet scrutiny.  It seems like the better part of valor to keep her back to him.

It hadn't been the kind of thing she'd thought about much since she'd gotten out of his office.  Telling him she'd had sex with Rio was absolutely the most obvious cover, so it's a little embarrassing that she hadn't thought of it first (she comforts herself with the idea that there's probably a learning curve associated with this whole criminal enterprise thing).  There had been a moment of guilty pleasure at what she had said--a feeling that's a little too reminiscent of childish glee at pushing boundaries by saying something inappropriate to be comfortable--but coming home held responsibilities and duties and minor catastrophes, so she had neglected to process that she had, moderately graphically, described a sexual encounter with a man she would later have to see, and speak to, and interact with. 

And, in an odd way, his coming by himself puts her on uneven ground.  They haven’t been  _ really _ alone much before--usually, he’s got muscle with him, or she’s got Ruby and her sister, or they’re in public.  She feels the weight of the  _ emptiness _ of the house.  Something about it, or something about the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach, makes her feel compelled to treat him like a guest and not an invader (never mind that this time she invited him in).  

Finally, the silence gets to her, and she whirls around and asks, “Something you’d like?”

Not for the first time, she watches his gaze skip over her--it feels purposeful, meant to be seen, makes her mouth go dry and makes her turn her back to him to thoughtlessly empty the coffee maker to give herself a chance to get whatever  _ this _ is under control.  His quick, sharp exhale is just audible, and she reminds herself that his being there without backup probably has more to do with how little she impresses him than any desire to do more than screw with her.  Suddenly, she's  _ tired _ and just wants him gone, wants to be left alone for the few hours she'd get because she’s got the distinct feeling she won’t be getting anything positive out of this encounter.

“If this is a social call, it’s going really well, I think,” she tries again, feeling punchy.  She reasons he probably would have shot her by now for something more serious than a little sarcasm.

“How'd it go with the fed?” he asks, apparently unbothered by her tone. 

“Well,” she replies a little tightly, annoyed that he came here to ask at all.  He seems to be waiting and she can't help looking up at the ceiling. “It was fine.  That is, until you showed up, since I told him I didn't plan on seeing you again.”

At this, he smiles brightly and skims a palm over his hair, and something flutters in her stomach before he sobers, leans back against the island in front of her, and says, “I need to know what you told him.”

“I told him that we h--we slept together,” she says slowly as if he hadn't come up with that plan.

“Uh huh,” he nods, and she knows there's some as yet unnamed danger on the horizon because she recognizes that nod.  She stills so much as he steps closer that she doesn't even  _ breathe _ , and her eyes stay locked on his as he, without hesitation, settles forward with both hands on the counter to either side of her.  When she does finally need to take a breath, she can smell his soap. “What did you tell him?” he asks, lips curling into a smirk that feels like a challenge. 

“I told him,” she replies, voice saccharine and smile wide as ever, eyes unwavering and unblinking, “That I picked up a stranger in a bar, brought him to my home, and I let him take off my panties and screw me on the kitchen table.  Pancakes were involved. Is there anything else you need?” It comes out quickly, but she’s satisfied that it comes out steadily.

There's a beat when nothing happens--neither moves, neither speaks, gazes held, and for a panicked moment all she can think is that this is some bizarre gang initiation or one very long episode of  _ Candid Camera _ .

The pause can only be a handful of seconds, but Beth somehow feels like they've been locked there like that for hours when he shifts slightly, eyes dropping, and there's amusement and something like thoughtfulness in his tone when he asks, “That's what you think sounds good?”

At the moment, close enough to feel the words ghosting her lips and close enough to feel conscious of everywhere they're not touching, she thinks,  _ Yes, that's what I think sounds good.   _ “It sounds realistic.”  She’s going for bored, but she thinks she overshoots it, knows he doesn’t buy it by the glint in his eye.  “It sounds,” she adds, gaze firmly locked back on his even if her tone wavers a little, “Like the kind of thing a pissed off housewife would do.”  He doesn’t move away but does shrug one shoulder, which she takes as agreement. After a beat, she demands, “Are we done here?”

“Oh, I don’t know about  _ that _ ,” he says, low enough almost to be a purr as he hunches down so his face is on level with hers.

She isn't sure whether or not to consider that an improvement but doesn't give herself a chance to think about what she does next, it's so easy to lean forward that extra couple inches to mash her lips into his, clumsy enough that their noses and teeth knock together.  His reaction is immediate, hand coming up to grip the back of her neck as he presses into the kiss with force just short of painful.  _ It’s not real _ , she thinks distantly as her hands fist into the front of his hoodie,  _ You had a stroke, this is all a dream, just go with it, it’s fine. _

It's unclear when her inner voice started sounding like Annie, but it’s giving that stroke theory credence.

When he pulls back, she loosens her grip until her palms press flat to his chest, not pushing him away but reveling in the sensation of touching him which she thinks should be alarming, his own hand curled without pressure where her shoulder meets her neck, thumb resting against the pulse point at the base of her throat.  Her heart beats so hard she almost can’t hear over it and she wonders vaguely if he feels that.  _ Definitely real _ , she thinks as he pushes back in with slick lips.   _ Bad decision, but definitely real _ .  She ignores that very good point in favor of letting him bite into her mouth--the thought that she’s technically still married (and  _ that _ at least sounds like her) passes by, followed quickly by an emphatic,  _ Well only technically. _

The edge of the counter digs into her lower back, and she should, she really should push him away, should make him stop, but the kiss is rough and slick and she  _ moans _ when his teeth close on her lower lip.  She doesn’t  _ want _ to make him stop.

It’s not how she imagined--and, God, she  _ did _ imagine how it would go--the way he touches her is purposeful but not hurried, his fingers don’t bruise, and while the kiss is rough it's thorough and makes her knees feel weak.  Her breath catches when his blunt nails drag over her scalp, and when his fingers tangle in her hair at the back of her head, she hisses as a bolt of electricity shoots through her and she tilts her head back.  Her eyes, which she can’t remember closing, open and meet his. Another token protest, quieter in the back of her mind, but she finds he comes surprisingly easily when she yanks him forward by the beltloops. His hold on her hair isn’t tight enough to hurt, just holding her there--after another few beats, she glances past him to the table and her cheeks go hot when his shoulders start shaking with quiet laughter.

“You know what--” she starts without knowing what she's going to say, cut off by a sound kiss that would have made her speechless if her mouth were at liberty.  Instead, she gives a sigh that tapers into something uncomfortably like a whine when he tugs her head back and bares her neck. When she does regain her ability to speak, it's only to let out a soft,  _ “Oh,” _ as he nips at the sensitive flesh under her jaw.

“Yeah?” he asks low and rough, swiping his tongue over the bite before latching his mouth there and drawing a gasp out of her that sounds too loud in the stillness around them when he sucks sharply. 

She finds herself arching up, pressing up into him, letting him slide one knee between hers, and she mutters haltingly, “Yeah--yeah, sure, just--keep doing that.”

With a pop, he pulls off and chides, “Bossy,” but he follows it up with, “Keep doing this?” before biting down, dragging his teeth over the same spot. 

Her voice is wrecked when she moans, “Uh-huh.”  She realizes that she could be doing something with her hands, that he sounds too composed, and she gropes thoughtlessly up his sides, up his chest, until her fingers close on the zipper of his hoodie.  Pulling back just a little, she drags it down and feels him stiffen and for a sick moment she thinks,  _ That's not what this is,  _ and,  _ This is going to make working with him really awkward.  _  But then he straightens and his hold on her hair tightens just a little before loosening to almost nothing at all, and she swallows before letting her hands skim up the soft material of the T-shirt he's wearing, taking in the warmth of his skin just underneath.  Her fingers curl around his shoulders briefly--because she can, because she hasn't  _ touched _ anyone in so long--and she watches his sweater fall down his arms to the floor.

Then, in for a penny and all, she grabs the hem of his shirt and draws it up, eyes tracking the progress of lean, bared muscle until he takes matters into his own hands and tears it the rest of the way over his head, lets it drop by his feet.  Biting her lip, she can't do anything but _ look _ , from his throat to his chest to his navel to the button of his jeans, gaze lingering over his tattoos as she takes him in.  She finds when she presses her open mouth to the wing of the tattoo on his neck, she can feel where the ink is just under the skin.  With too little pressure that belies her hesitation, she maps it with tongue and teeth and lips, humming against his throat at the burn of his stubble and feeling more than hearing the way his breathing stutters.  Her fingertips drag down as she focuses on the hollow between his collarbones, his groan vibrating through her teeth, but as they reach his sides he sucks in a sharp breath and jerks back, grabbing both hands and yanking them away from his body.

He drops them just as quickly, and something about the face he's making makes her blurt, “What was that?  Are you  _ ticklish?”   _

The way he squints at her before lifting his eyes to the ceiling is eloquent enough that if she weren't all dazed and half-desperate to be touching him again, she thinks she'd probably laugh.  As it were, she  _ is _ , so she's all too happy to drop it-- _ for now _ , she thinks--when he ducks down.  She thinks he's coming in to kiss her and definitely  _ doesn't _ squawk when he grabs the backs of her thighs and boosts her up onto the counter--clapping a hand over her mouth, she does her best to stifle the surprised, slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles up in her chest.

“You ticklish or something?” he taunts against her lips.

Before she can say something embarrassing and cliché like,  _ Shut up and kiss me,  _ he does, big hands grasping at her breasts and her sides and her hips before falling to her knees.  She breaks the kiss as he pushes the hem of her dress up, lets him step between her thighs. He turns his attention to her jaw, her earlobe, her neck, and she digs her nails into his back, satisfied when he moans into her skin.  She gasps as he touches her, feather-light, almost too good and too much even through a layer of fabric that's feeling thinner and thinner by the moment. Clumsy, both purely out of eagerness but also because she can't remember the last time she's tried to do this, she unbuckles his belt and pauses at the button of his jeans.

“I haven't--” she pants senselessly, lifting her hips when he hooks his fingers in the waistband of her underwear to allow him to slip them off, “I haven't done this in…”

He doesn't stop, but his touches are more fleeting for a moment, and she realizes she can  _ feel _ the curl of his smirk before she hears, “How long, Elizabeth?”

She isn't sure what it is, but something in that  _ Elizabeth _ makes her heart stutter in her chest.  “Years,” comes out so hoarse it almost aches.  

The pause that follows is too much--too loaded, intimate--for what this is supposed to be, so she pulls back a little, avoiding his gaze, and watches her hands undo his jeans.  There's a quiet sort of thrill that shoots through her when her fingers wrap around his cock, other hand resting on his hip, even better when he moans hotly into her ear. Confidence growing, she strokes him a few times, turns her head, catches his mouth in an open, hungry kiss.  He smooths his hands back up her thighs, pushing them further apart as he goes.

His fingers graze her slick sex--she whimpers, he hisses a tight, “Shit,” against her lips.  He says something, she's not sure what, something ending  _ like that? _ but every brush makes her quake, makes little starbursts of pleasure flash through her.  Just as the words  _ do you have a  _ form in the back of her throat, he shifts away and reaches for his back pocket.  She leans back, breath heavy and quick with both hands on the counter, and watches him rip open the the foil and roll on the condom with long, deft fingers.  

The hand is back in her hair as he presses the head of his cock against her, and she moans, tries to get closer, needs him, needs--“Rio,  _ please.” _

That must be what he's waiting for--or maybe please really is the magic word--because in one swift  _ oh fuck _ move he's inside her and it's so overwhelming for a moment she doesn't realize she's said that out loud until she registers his surprised laugh.  Face burning, she nudges his side with her knee and rocks her hips with a high, quiet noise, nails digging into his shoulders and trying to draw him impossibly closer.  His arm slings low and firm around her middle, tugging her forward until she has to wrap her legs around his waist. He pulls out almost completely, tortuously slow, and slams back in, and she stifles a cry into his shoulder.

It all goes very fast from there--he pulls her hair hard to drag her into a sloppy kiss, thrusts growing hard and fast, and swallows her helpless moans.  Each quick, rough jerk brings her further off the countertop until he's taking most of her weight and the edge of it is jammed painfully into the small of her back, an unexpectedly delicious counterpoint to the bolts of pleasure shooting all through her, pooling in her belly.  She bites at his lips and his jaw and his neck, driven closer to the edge by his low, bitten-off groans buried into her neck. She whines and bucks and may speak-- _ yesthere _ or  _ ohgod _ or  _ Rioplease _ .

She's so close, heedless that her grip on his back is almost hard enough to break skin, she almost can't breathe with it, can only beg for--she doesn't even know what anymore, more or less or harder or  _ something _ .  She feels herself right on the edge of climax, unable to do more than hold on.

“C'mon,” he murmurs into her ear, voice gruff and sex-thick in a way that makes her shiver, “C'mon, I got you, I--”

Her orgasm hits her so hard she sees white, may actually knock the wind out of her, and she barely registers that his thrusts have gone jerky, erratic.  Shaking with blinding, shattering aftershocks, she mewls as he drives into her, curses into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and finally stills. He holds her tight, choking gasps against her throat as she comes down and strokes down his back absently.  

After what feels like an interminable period, he straightens and sets her back onto the countertop, but he doesn't move to back away.  Dazed and sleepy-sated, she feels brave enough to knock her forehead against his temple as she slowly regains awareness of her extremities.  He turns into the touch and their lips brush and she sighs. The panic will come later, but right now all she is is warm and satisfied and just a little smug, deep down.  When he does start to draw back, she bites down around a discontented noise that wants to slip out of her and lets him help her down. Her legs feel like jelly, and she sort of tingles all over.  He still crowds into her space, kissing her lazily in a way that she'd almost call sweet if she didn't know any better.

Eventually, as he takes a step back and looks around in search of  _ something _ , she feels compelled to speak, but all she can come up with is, “That was--”

His smile, softer and gentler than she's ever seen it, makes her forget what she was going to say.  “Yeah,” he agrees.

“There's a bathroom in my bedroom,” she says after a beat, looking away from him and towards her room.  “You know the way.”

He huffs in amusement and bends to pick up his discarded clothes and, without doing more than hitch his still-open jeans up a bit, makes his way out of the kitchen.  For her part, it's about all she can do to lean back against the counter and try to get a handle on her newly-tilted worldview. In the few minutes it takes him to come back, dressed and face looking open and easy, she doesn't make much progress.  It all goes out the window, though, when he stops next to the table and looks at it pensively.

Catching her watching him, he grins with a heat that makes her want to either squirm away or throw herself at him and says, “Next time, yeah?”

“I--”  _ don't think we should do this again, _ she doesn't say.  It's too much like a lie--they  _ shouldn't _ , probably--so instead she licks her lips and nods, “Next time.”

He closes the distance between them with all the confidence of knowing he's welcome-- _ cocky _ , she thinks, wondering when she started _ liking _ that--and murmurs, “Good girl.”  He kisses her before she can laugh or roll her eyes, quick and hard, like the seal on a promise, before backing away from her and starts towards the front door.  “See you on collection day,” he calls. 

And then he's gone.

Letting out a long, pent-up breath, she sags back for half a beat before lurching away from the counter.  She finds her panties kicked under the cabinets, grabs them, and goes to her room to toss them in her hamper and empty the bathroom trash.  She catches her reflection and gasps, turning her head from side to side and staring open-mouthed at the bruises littering her neck.

“Hickeys?” she demands to herself in disbelief as she prods at the marks, unable to ignore the little shiver of pleasurepain that elicits.  “What are we, fifteen?”

Finally, because aside from cover them there's not much to do about it, she steps away from the vanity and goes to her bedroom to find something to wear that doesn't look so disheveled it  _ screams _ ‘I just hooked up with a gangbanger in my kitchen'.  That finished, she checks her phone and finds no news from Dean, no notifications at all.  An idea strikes as she scrolls through her messages and selects Rio's name. She snaps a picture of her bed and looks at the text box thoughtfully. 

_ Next time?  _ she types.

With a small, satisfied smile, she hits send.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> Please feel free to stop by my [Tumblr](https://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) and talk to me about my journey into this fandom!
> 
> Also, I know Rio does it in this fic, but it's actually a bad idea to keep condoms in your wallet, so please don't do that.


End file.
